


Big Sexy Labrador

by AwkwardAnonymous



Category: Stellar Firma (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Egregious use of Headcanons, Galactonium, Gen, Pre-Canon, Worldbuilding, mostly anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:35:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25745221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardAnonymous/pseuds/AwkwardAnonymous
Summary: A meditation on who Bathin might be.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Big Sexy Labrador

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: Hi all! I just wanted to duck in and say that this fic was written and posted before the RQG/STL Halloween crossover episodes where we got a bit of flavour about Bathin! This means that there's a sentence or two that doesn't completely fit into Bathin's (questionaly) canon appearance, but I've decided to leave it unchanged for posterity's sake. Everything beyond this point, including end notes, remains as it was at time of publishing. Thank you for reading!

Bathin was nine when he was enrolled in Stella Firma’s educational faculty with a family name that he’d since renounced and the memory of his father’s resolute gaze burned into his mind. He wasn’t allowed to talk about his father, his mother has whispered to him as they huddled in the transport cargo on the way to Stella Firma HQ, “ _their war was a quiet one.”_

At the time, Bathin hadn’t understood what his mother meant, but he knew that he had to go to school and do well and not talk about Galactonium under _any circumstance._ And so, when the ship docked in Stella Firma’s cavernous hanger Bathin strode out with his hand kept safe in his mother’s and his eyes wide and enraptured by the grey-white steel before him. Never had he seen so much metal in his life. Galactonium was verdant by design. His father would take him for long walks through the dense jungles surrounding their settlement and tell him that the greenery was what allowed them to flourish, that they were beings welcomed and fostered into a caring world. A mother. 

“ _Roots are what sustain us.”_

Stella Firma had no grass, and Bathin would spend hours sitting in awe of the chrome defiance surrounding him. The halls were cold and alien and strong all at once, and though Bathin wished for sunny days spent under towering leaves, he begrudgingly respected this new world as it stood tall and proclaimed ‘ _We alone are enough’._ It was a monument to the individual, and on his first day at his new school, he was told no different. There was no colony, no sacrifice to a coexistence. You could build the mountains to fit your space and mothers could be mechanised. Nevertheless, Bathin tried to sprout seeds in his classmates and watched them bear fruit.

He’d been accepted into the Stella Firma Diversification Initiative, a _charitable program_ implemented by Stella Firma to scout out the bright minds in human and human-adjacent youths scattered throughout the universe and invite them into the corporation’s ever-reaching arms. The official directive of the SFDI was to ‘offer gifted individuals in poorer circumstances an opportunity to _get a foot in the door of success_ and _make dad proud, sport’,_ for the reasonable fee of permanent citizen-employeeship upon graduation _._ It was later uncovered, largely due to the efforts of Bathin’s mother, that Stella Firma aimed to expand and improve their genetic soup, ultimately lifting the talent of the company.

Selective immigration at best, eugenics at worst.

On his first day at school, his unique status as an immigrant bred curiosity throughout his classmates. He was one of 12 students from the SFDI enrolled at Stella Firma during his five-year education there, and the only one in his year level. After morning classes, there was a dedicated 30-minute socialising interval meant for students to practise interpersonal skills like greetings and marketing pitches. _Smalltalk was a tool for management success,_ Mrs. Jikraz had said.

It was here that Bathin planted his roots. He liked people, and he tendered to his classmates with the genuine enthusiasm he showed the community garden in his settlement. Hezal, bright as anything, would develop a sudden stutter during oral presentations. Bathin showed her the deep breathing he saw his mother do in the mornings, and that helped. When she occasionally stammered at the front of the class she would find Bathin in the cluster of desks and beam at him before carrying on. Ahren thought the webbing between their fingers was weird, and Bathin told them he thought it was cool, and showed off the serpent-like tail he kept tucked down his trouser leg at school. Cormac didn’t think humans had tails, but no one in the class could agree on that and eventually, they all decided they probably did because lots of people at Stella Firma have tails, and Stella Firma only employed humans.

When Bathin was thirteen, he met Trexel Geistman. Trexel was a wild shrub pruned back, all clipped thorns and knotted branches. Bathin watered him as best he could, and gave him enough space to grow into, should he wish too. Bathin loved the unruliness that clung to Trexel’s hair and skin; it reminded him of the spiralling cascades of vines in his home. Bathin almost had a heart attack when, on a school excursion to middle management, he saw Trexel totter over to an airlock and carelessly lean back against the release latch. Bathin was across the room before he could register the movement, throwing out his hand and finding purchase in Trexel’s jumper just before he was whisked out into space. Bathin clutched at Trexel for almost thirty seconds before the breach was brought under control, helplessly watching his friend go blue.

Trexel survived, thankfully, and the school trip was brought to a swift end following the incident. 

At fourteen, towards the end of the school year, Bathin’s mother took him out of class early. He remembers being midway way through a presentation on duty-of-care loopholes when she arrived, and the subtle way her lips twisted into a minute snarl. Bathin gathered his things and dutifully followed his mother out the door, mindful of his classmates prying stares. His mother wasn’t a citizen-employee either and had no chance to become one. She had a janitorial position on the ship, allowed to stay until Bathin graduated as his guardian.

She took Bathin’s hand and rushed him down the metallic corridors. Bathin was mid growth spurt at the time, but his legs still had to work double-time to keep up with the long strides of his mother’s haste. He asked where they were going, and his mother smiled down at him, eyes tight with worry, and whispered ‘ _Home.’_

In hindsight, it was obvious something was wrong, but Bathin let his excitement overtake him, and didn’t realise he was being loaded into a single unit podship until his mother kissed his forehead and promised, with oceans in her eyes,

‘ _I love you.’_

Bathin loved her too, and in a single, crystalline moment of clarity, he realised he was crying. He asked what was going on but she simply kissed him again and locked the pod doors. He managed to unbuckle himself just as the ship’s autopilot engaged liftoff, and he was slammed against the cabin walls, cutting his face open. Today, he has a long scar running along his jaw that’s just deep enough to be near-impossible to cover with makeup for holoshows, much to the disgruntlement of production crews.

(The tabloids liked to say it made him look rugged, but Bathin just thought he looked hurt.) 

It took five days of flight for the podship to reach a Galactonium outpost, and then another 8 days in transit before reaching his father. Bathin spent most of the podship trip crying, mourning his mother long before news of her death reached him. He knew that was the last time he’d see her; the tenderness in her goodbye was matched only by its finality.

He makes it home, to the Duke’s house and arms, and his father soothes down his nightmares and murmurs that his mother was a hero. She had volunteered to infiltrate Stella Firma as a spy, demanded it even. His father had wanted to send someone else, but she had declared that if he wasn’t willing to send her in knowing the dangers, then he was unfit to push the risk onto another. Bathin was the ticket in, and her cover story. She was brilliant in her work, had uncovered secrets and smuggled technology held firmly under Stella Firma lock and key, and edged them ever closer to the liberation of humanity before her activity in the systems was registered by the ship’s AI. Bathin had thought the war against Stella Firma had ended long ago, the rebellion built their planet and defended it from their oppressors, and though history class was shrunk in favour of business studies, Bathin was certain school had taught him that the corporation and colony had amicably settled. His father was honest with him, though spared the gruesomeness of war until he was older, and explained that the fighting was just done out of sight, now. Stella Firma never forgave them for finding their freedom, and Galactonium would certainly never rest easy knowing their brothers and sisters lived in indentured servitude. There was no public dispute, and indeed many of the denizens of Galactonium (and the citizen-employees of Stella Firma) were unaware of the machinations working to undermine the rule of each government, or board.

Looking back, Bathing can’t help but wonder if he grew himself in honour of his mother, brewing a quiet war. 

***

Perhaps predictably, Stella Firma’s education proved ultimately useless in the real world, and Bathin found himself drawn to travel, wanting to experience life from as many angles as possible to avoid the wrinkles of bias marring each one. His father encouraged his flight, wrote often, and was always attentive to the hardships Bathin reported in his travels to the outer colonies. Stella Firma took shortcuts on their planets, tied inhabitants up in planetary debt with projects that ran too long and cost too much, and displaced smaller colonies from existing planets to remodel them in a client’s image.

Bathin was seventeen when he made his first documentary. Galactonium had long since expanded out to a system of planets—sparsely populating diverse biospheres rather than crowding the one—and Bathin found himself on Planet:XV912, colloquially called Ursa. Ursa was a supposedly an abandoned Stella Firma build project, close enough to the Galactonium empire for them to cautiously expand onto. It had been safe for a decade, fertile soils and clean rivers, but in the last year a poison had spread through the ground, killing back forests and farms. A slow-acting mineral was found in the planet’s crust, beginning its decay and degrading into a toxic waste. There was no logical explanation for why it was used in the planet’s composition, and in his next correspondence with his father Bathin was told in a hushed voice over a secure channel that operatives had found schematics that suggested the planet was designed and left as a trap for Galactonium, purposely plaguing their settlement.

Bathin felt something cold and insidious creep inside him. He felt powerless in a way he hadn’t since that first day in the podship, curled against the door. His father made it clear they couldn’t publicly accuse Stella Firma without more concrete evidence; what they had wouldn’t stick and only compromise their intel chain. But Bathin was angry in a way he’d never been and had spent years sitting in a Stella Firma classroom being told that individuals were what built history.

He bought a camera and enlisted the help of Stev, a long-serving member of his father’s staff, to film him interviewing the local denizens about Ursa’s plight. It was messy, raw, and painfully earnest, but people watched it. Nothing was explicitly levelled at them, but questions were still asked about Stella Firma’s integrity, both for its mineral choices and for dumping toxic planets in empty space. There were laws and conventions about space junk, after all.

Stella Firma wouldn’t have survived so long without an exceptional PR department, however, and though Bathin didn’t realise it at the time, he’d just declared a crusade.

The next two years were spent at the edges of Galactonium’s reach, nestled in dens with families recounting their lives and the corporate miasma invading them. On a trip to Planet:YB413, Bathin had to make a stopover in a Mars Concordant quadrant to refuel. The centre, locally known as The Pitstop, was a planet-sized restocking point for intergalactic travellers, the construction of which was handled by Stella Firma, naturally. It was there, in the loading hanger dazzled with LED adverts, that Bathin was first recognised outside of Galactonium. As a journalist, no less, not the son of a Duke.

The exchange of smiles and autographs left Bathin buzz-drunk and satisfied. Perhaps, had he not been so quick to accept the thin veneer of praise and pleasantry, he would have discovered what became of his work after it left Galactonium territory before turning twenty-three.

It was on Axria, accompanying his father on a diplomatic visit, that he first became aware of _Bathin’s Travel Vlogs._ Once outside of Galactonium territory, Stella Firma had intercepted Bathin’s exposés, the perks of intergalactic reach and influence, and PR had lovingly, almost patronisingly, spliced and chopped and rebranded them into peppy vlogs. Bathin had made a point in all his documentaries to end on the recovery efforts of the colonies; showcasing the beauty in their homes and encouraging tourism to lessen the economic burdens the people faced. Ursa had paid dearly to restore their soil, and the travel surge following Bathin’s work had gone far in lessening their debt.

Now, that same footage accounted for most of the published work, filled with frankenbites and sunny smiles. His rally against Stella Firma had been rebranded into their promotional material. He’d been spat and sneered down on, considered too little of a threat to be dealt with any proper animosity. The message was crystal: the colonies got their tourism; Stella Firma got their free marketing. _Play nice, and nobody gets hurt._

It was perhaps this, more than anything, that spurred Bathin to follow his father’s legacy in public service. His father’s title was an undeniable privilege that carried his resume to the right desk, and at twenty-four he landed himself an advisory position in the Crowning House which proved to largely be an extension of the humanities work he already performed. Bathin visited colonies, heard their stories, and tried to spread them as far as he was able before Stella Firma stepped in and reduced him to a vapid, smiling salesman. His public image swelled into a caricature of himself, emptied of substance with a glossy coat as behind closed doors he’d report wrongdoings to the crowned representatives of Galactonium.

Bathin suspects, though he had no evidence, that Stella Firma did not anticipate that the doctoring and distributing of his holovids would have grown his own popularity so exponentially, alongside the company name. It was a double-edged sword. At his throat, Bathin’s likability was intrinsically linked to Stella Firma’s returns. He was endorsing their products after all, even as he pointed the blade back at them. The risk was obvious, and clearly one Stella Firma felt confident in handling: Bathin’s celebrity status raised his voice and message. Their PR tightrope-walked the razor edge, laying traps in Bathin’s wait.

The request for a holovid interview in Vvarfell seemed innocuous enough. A simple talk show, offering Bathin the opportunity to share tales from his homeland and, should he be so lucky, plant seeds of doubt and dissent in important planetary clientele. It was a waste of time, the questions were vacuous chatter about his favourite foods, hobbies, _were they any special someone’s in his life?_ He left the planet system dissatisfied, which withered into a bitterness as tabloids raced to recycle the so-called story.

Then, like a drizzle shifting to a storm, a magazine would call, holoshow stations would clog his email, and societies would send invitations. Any interviews would end the same as the first: nothing of value would be aired. It was as if the press was carefully cultivating his image into a grade-A himbo, which, as it turned out, was in fact the truth. Stella Firma’s answer to Bathin’s growing reach: water him down into a big dumb piece of meat, too airheaded for his words to have any weight to them.

It was around this time a Baroness reached out to Bathin and offered him a position in aid of Galactonium’s covert forces. Bathin’s fame provided him the opportunity to travel largely unquestioned. In particular, his humanitarian work and _travel vlogs_ allowed him to visit stricken corners of the universe, whereas his golden boy status as a hot person on-a-holoscreen-near-you had provided him increasing access to Stella Firma allied networks and systems. His job would be simple: continue the work he was already doing, but his crew would be compiled of undercover operatives, hidden by the brightness of his sunny disposition. His work would mask their movements, allow them to rendezvous with the resistance ( _and how exciting was that! the resistance still lived!)_ undetected, and smuggle them into enemy territory.

Bathin accepted, and so began his professional foray into being whittled down to an insipid sex symbol. He’d smile for cameras, laugh at the appropriate places, schmooze with executives as his _PA_ rooted through their desk drawers for evidence of bribes. He learnt to hide his snarl in renegade smiles as he played the part of a big, dumb, sexed-up Labrador. _Good boy, sit down, shake._

He flirts with modelling, and Stella Firma is cocky enough to commission him to wear their official merchandise. Lowa, who’s family’s farm had been devastated during Ursa’s plight, works her way into Stella Firma’s servers when supposedly sent on a coffee run, and steals schematics to a prototype mass generator, used to build the kernel around which a planet can be sculpted. The visit also provided Galactonium with a critical kernel of intel: Stella Firma is no longer wary of Bathin. He can make bigger plays.

Of the seven charities he established, three were operation fronts. The Charitable Society for Lost Spacecrafts provided an excellent excuse for Galactonium denizens to travel through hostile areas. _It’s charitable work, sir._ If an operative was comprised, they were to feign humanitarian actions, and Bathin could bail them out under the guise of having employed them. The Association in Aid of Those Who Don’t Like to Shop was, admittedly, a lazy concept, but Bathin was watery enough in the public eye that such an association seemed entirely in character for the sensitive, if charmingly absent-minded, son of a Duke. Nevertheless, the charity was surprisingly successful and crafted doors into Stella Firma showrooms and business partner conventions.

It was then, perhaps like Icarus, almost certainly like humanity millennia ago, that Bathin grew in hubris, and ventured too close to the sun.

The third front charity was birthed in collaboration with the Crowning House of Galactonium, a partnership of governmental and private enterprising, or so it was told. Inspired by the _repeated and avoidable_ tragedies of Svalbard, The Royal Society for Planetary Refuge would make use of the terraforming technology liberated from Stella Firma, including the biosphere tech Bathin’s mother had died to provide his people, to mend or replace ‘ _planets afflicted with negligence and disaster’._ Bathin remembers the fierce pride that swelled within him as he stood at his father’s side, declaring their opposition as openly as they could ever dare. There was no mention of Stella Firma in the announcement, and Galactonium claimed the tech as their own, but SF Ltd had a monopoly on the planet generation industry. Any faulty planets could only be of their own making.

Predictably, the move was taken as a personal slight, and Bathin awoke at twenty-nine years of age to the news that his father had been assassinated. He remembers being taken to the coroner’s office by the Baroness. There was no clear cause of death, nor evidence of foul play save a single Stella Firma business card artfully displayed on his bedside dresser. Publically, he passed away peacefully in his sleep, after 50 long years serving his people.

Bathin ran to fill his father’s seat. His election trail was much the same as the rest of his life: travel to new places and talk to new people. There was a media storm outside of Galactonium, barging into their settlements. _Pure insanity, electing a celebrity! Models should stick to deciding what to wear, not deciding intergalactic policy!_

He won by a certifiable landslide and inherited the honourable title of Great Duke with the resignation of his surname. When elected into the Crowning House, representatives shed their family names in a symbolic sacrifice of ego to serve the people above themselves. It was the highest distinction, and Bathin was gracious as his mother’s name slid off him so he might inherit his father’s legacy. The people were her legacy too, he would honour them both. And so he rose, the Great Duke of Galactonium.

He took to government with all the grace of a well-practised socialite, and Bathin likes to think he’s served his people well. He often catches himself awake at night, staring up at the decorated ceiling and mulling over his succession to his father’s position. It was decided, during early governance, that although Galactonium would operate under democratic council, parliamentary hierarchy would be assigned to serving members based on the duration of their service. This precedent was later adjusted so that the offspring of the Crowning House (such as Bathin) could inherit their parent’s legacy, should they follow them into governance. An unfortunate side effect of these parliamentary hierarchies was the fostering of political dynasties. Earls and Great Barons coming from a long lineage of elected members who swayed public opinion in their favour by virtue of their title and in doing so perpetuated a strange pseudo-feudalist system.

Bathin hopes, sometimes, that history will not remember him as just another man who failed to address the system he benefited from, though he could not fault it for doing so. As strange a custom as it was, it was one of the few distinctly Galactonium.

Galactonium was founded on cobbled scraps of culture, woven together to form a loose tapestry of people. Surviving Earth customs were the patented property of Stella Firma, and though the first colonies tried to revive as much of Earth as they could remember, there was so much lost of who they were as a people. The common narrative of humanity was constantly called into question: were they a building race? Or was that marketing spin to sell more planets? What animals were native to Earth? Even the exact definition of humanity was in flux. Stella Firma owned the human genome, no one except their board knew with any certainty what traits were of Earth and which had been mixed in after centuries of interplanetary rendezvous. When Bathin looks back on his career as Great Duke, one of his proudest policies will be the expansion of the term human in the Galactonium constitution to include ‘all Earth-origin species’, granting rights and protections to thousands of immigrants dwelling under their flag. Section 12 was bitterly contested in the Crowning House for months, though ultimately it was ruled that clones too, moulded from denizen genes, were of Earth, and now as human as the rest of them.

His heightened public scrutiny that came with elected office saw a swift end to Bathin’s household pretty boy status, _thank fuck._ He still travelled, believed fiercely that to accept a single point of sight was to stagnate, and still he documented the local experience as best he could. Encouraging tourism took up a larger slice of his attention than he was altogether happy with, upon reflection, but he was still able to package up the issues affecting his people and present them on the Crowning House floor, and directly put forth policy to resolve them.

He established a planetary museum for Galactonium history on his home planet. He worked closely with his planet’s historians to recontextualise the texts and databases copied from Stella Firma servers. There was one exhibit on the establishment of denizens which Bathin was especially fond of:

_Denizen, noun:_

  1. _a person, animal, or plant that lives or is found in a particular place._
  2. _a foreigner allowed certain rights in their adopted country._



A tongue in cheek decision by their founders, Galactonium named its people denizens in reference to their diminishment under Stella Firma’s ‘adoption’, as well as establishing themselves as a group who belonged to their new home. They were both a foreign and native people to their corner of the universe, and a patriotism Bathin didn’t know he held so dearly blazed at the declaration. _We grew our own home._

It was this little plaque that sprung a sudden and ethereal realisation in Bathin: Galactonium had grown to be so much more than their past. They stood proudly as a melting pot of races and hybrids and flourished through peaceful trade and interplanetary aid. Bathin found himself walking back to the vibrant community garden he grew up with, filled with fruits that never existed on Earth and an undeniable air of beauty. Their old history had been irreparably corrupted; they could look forward and grow a new way of life. And so, for possibly the first time since he was a fourteen-year-old huddled and tear-streaked, the war in Bathin’s head went silent.

(He will later quote this walk as his inspiration for the constitutional expansion of humanity.)

Bathin’s life pivots, and so too do his policies. He rallies for increased social spending, advancing foreign aid, and more community gardens overflowing with a melting pot of intergalactic vegetables. For years, Bathin continued good work, nurtured his colonies and proudly championed them forwards, until--

\--On Bathin’s 34th birthday, he was summoned to an emergency summit in response to Stella Firma announcing exciting new business incentives (glorified tariffs) that make life a lot more expensive for planets looking to do trade with Galactonium. It was uncertain what prompted this decision until it surfaces that one of Bathin’s early documentaries, completely unedited, wormed its way into intergalactic channels, and Stella Firma did not take kindly to it. Platitudes are offered, rebuked, and slowly the prosperity that Galactonium saw as a trading post shrinks.

It’s after six months of dead-ended negotiations, and another three of infighting in the Crowning House, that Bathin travels to Stella Firma once again, a newly valued customer.

The price is simple: Bathin publicly purchases from Stella Firma, demonstrating his _satisfaction_ with the brand, and Stella Firma backs down. _Play nice, and nobody gets hurt._ The olive branch catches in Bathin’s throat as he sits in the expansive sales consult room, choking up a brief to a sneering employee. The planet itself doesn’t matter, just so long as it is understood that Bathin’s documentary came from a reckless, radicalised teen and that the matured _Great Duke_ would never speak so out of turn. _Bark only when told to speak._

Somehow, his people stand behind him still, and he keeps his seat.

When the planet is finished and presented it is such a shitshow that Stella Firma manages to mar their own name more deeply than any past efforts of Bathin’s. A planet-sized novelty safe, with the indiscriminate death of denizens being a _boasted design feature, complete with a Goobrication patent,_ nestling an ever-shrinking series of equally perilous safes, a dedicated accommodation space for presumed child labour, and to top it all off, a button that _requires a spaceship to kamikaze into it to open the bloody planet up._ Thankfully, no citizens are harmed. During the grand unveiling by a nervous-looking Stella Firma PR employee, an unmanned ship is flung into the side of the safe, revealing the hazardous mechanisations within (and sucking out whatever atmosphere they’d provided to the vacuum of space). The employee had stuttered out their pitch, sweat gathering down their nose, and as soon as _Child Goobrication_ was mentioned the associated press, who had been almost transfixed by the sheer absurdity of it all, descended like vultures.

The prevailing narrative was that Stella Firma had forgone their professionalism due to the _decorated_ history between itself and Galactonium _and that the planet was purposely bad,_ _for a prank!_ While not company imploding, the damage was done, and trust, as well as sales, diminished.

(Bathin was delighted, and sent Stella Firma an autographed photo from an old swimsuit shoot as thank you for the pleasure.)

Something Bathin was certain in, however, was that a planet so spectacularly abysmal could only be the product of purposeful sabotage. He reached out to Lowa, now head of the special forces, to ask if their operatives had any idea _what the fuck that was all about._ Feelers were put out, and a name was returned: Trexel Geistmen, apparently still a friend after all these years.

Bathin went back to his work for his people, half an eye kept on the new war quietly building within Stella Firma’s own walls, headed, as far as intel could tell, by Trexel and a fresh-faced clone. Galactonium would not outright insert themselves into a civil uprising--

\--But if Trexel or his associate made contact--

\--if Stella Firma’s wrongdoings were finally exposed--

\--Well, Galactonium was nothing if not a testament to humanity’s resilience, and Bathin will return to Stella Firma for a third and final time, an ally to the cause, if he might serve in its fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Something, something, David dismantles Stella Firma and Bathin falls _hard_ for this incredible cloneboy. 
> 
> Also, in case anyone was wondering, Bathin having a serpent tail is a reference to the Bathin featured in The Lesser Key of Solomon, a 17th century demonology grimoire (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bathin)!  
> I've always liked the idea that the humans in Stella Firma are a little bit odd, genetically. 
> 
> Thank you for reading through to the end! My brain sort of latched onto the idea of doing something with Bathin's character, and I had a lot of fun trying to flesh him out. 
> 
> Also, a massive thank you to Octopodian for giving this fic a once over!


End file.
